The first time it didn't happen
by sunburntdaisy
Summary: So much was always unsaid, and in this story a whole lot more was going on behind the scenes. Beginning with the play in the first episode of season two, and continuing from there.
1. The first time it happened

The first time it happened was a week after the play. It was a long week. Peter didn't show his face in the bar for days. When he did show, Assumpta hid her relief behind a dozen pints to fill and as many ash trays to clean. She didn't speak to him at all. And then he made himself scarce and she saw that two o'clock sandwich for what it was: a poor cover-up, a pretense, playing at normal...

Not my problem, she told herself, almost certain she'd done nothing wrong. If she'd kissed him - but she hadn't.

Out of sight was not out of mind and this angered her. It was this anger that drove her to the church after closing. She saw him but he didn't see her. He was blowing out candles. Surely he didn't always take quite so long over it. One at a time. One, then another, then one that just wouldn't go out. He licked his fingers and pinched the wick, then brought his fingers back to his mouth, wincing.

Assumpta backed out. The church was no place to have this conversation. Her anger dissipated before she got to his door, and with it her certainty about which conversation they were going to have. He was avoiding her, clearly, and she wanted to know why, to call him on it.

He was taking forever. She sat down on the step.

She didn't hear him approach. Nothing till he said, "Assumpta?"

She stood, "If it's a bad time - "

"No, it's fine." He held his keyes inside his fist and waited for her to state her business.

"I've hardly seen you lately. Been busy?" So much for calling him out.

"Oh, ah, I suppose."

The breeze picked up and she hugged herself against it.

Peter unlocked the door and walked in, leaving it open.

She followed him into the kitchen.

He filled the kettle and set it on the stove. "Business booming?"

She laughed, "Hardly."

He didn't even smile.

"Has something happened?"

She saw the tension in his neck, but he looked her in the eye, too boldly, like a child caught in a lie. His mouth twisted and she thought of how he'd licked his fingers to snuff the candle.

He licked his lips.

It was such a small thing, a step. Maybe he moved too, because the space between them in that tiny kitchen shrank to nothing. They'd spent their hesitation on the stage apparently, for now there was none. His kiss was clumsy, hungry, unpracticed, his grip on her head too firm, as if she resisted, but she didn't. As if he thought she'd disappear. She couldn't summon the will to pull away at all. She rolled her hip against him and felt his breath catch on her lip. He groaned and she did it again. Until then he'd held he firmly, his hands stationary, but something changed with that groan. He ran bold hands down her body. Again she moved against him. He reached between them. She expected then, for the first time, to be pushed away, but his cool fingers slipped inside the front of her jeans. Without thought or sense, she pressed into him again. He stopped kissing her - froze, in fact.

She knew, and pushed him over the edge, lapping up his sounds.

The kettle sang.

Assumpta pulled away. He let his hand slip free of her jeans and watched her take the pot off the element. His fingers were wet. The kettle was silent. Assumpta turned back to face him, the look on her face all expectation. He went to her, kissed her again, gentler than before. They'd found a way to fit together, a rhythm, no less eager for its new ease. He was not sated. He was curious about himself as much as her - or not quite as much. He spread his hands around her middle and backed her into the kitchen counter. She was still wet and moved against him as if he knew what he was doing. He opened his eyes and stopped kissing her; he had to see. But he couldn't keep his distance. Her exposed neck begged to be kissed. The curve of her breast pressed against her t-shirt. He moved against her hip, wanting more. She shifted, the soft plane of her abdomen inviting, teasing. She spoke his name, just, "Peter," but his lips were on her throat and the vibration of her voice charged through him. He tried to reach further. She hooked her leg around him and opened. He drew back, a few inches gaping between his mouth and hers. Then she opened her eyes and looked right at him. She came in shudders and groans, her form tugging at his hand.

Her eyelids fell closed again and again, but she kept looking at him. There was almost always a challenge in her eyes and just now it was there more than ever. He was responsible for this, he did this to her, not to lay blame - no, she took her share of responsibility - but to acknowledge that she saw him and knew him and that this was happening.

He rested his forehead on hers and closed his eyes.

"I should probably go," she said.

The length of his fingers were still trapped between them, inside her clothes. He ran one fingertip along the line of her hipbone and sighed.

She took his face between her hands and kissed his mouth, a gentle familiarity - though this might still easily be called a first kiss.

He freed his hands and held them up, open, but away from her and all he still wanted - needed.

Her lips wavered and twisted as if she wanted to speak, but she didn't.

She left.


	2. The second time it happened

The second time it happened was weeks later, weeks of pretending like everything was the same as ever. Assumpta stopped looking for a change in Peter's behaviour but she was on edge every time Father Mac came in and she longed to ask Peter if he'd confessed, and to whom.

Niamh and Ambrose were at it like rabbits, had been for a while, so a little sex on the brain could hardly be helped. And then Brendan's job was on the line and maybe both Peter and Assumpta realised just whose job would be next, all too easily.

Assumpta was rearing for a battle and, losing the one against herself, gladly turned all guns on Father Mac. To a bar lined with long faces, she said, "Are we gonna talk about it or are we gonna do something?"

Peter looked up from his pint. "Like what?" He was back to his usual habits, the 2pm sandwich and 5pm jar, not every day but as often as not.

"Like a bit of direct action." She looked him square in the eye with a look all too similar to that one had owned all they'd felt and done that evening, weeks back. "Like taking our protest to the one responsible for all of this."

"Father Mac."

"Exactly. You're going to have to decide whose side you're on."

No kidding, he thought, fearing both were losing battles. What was he to the strong arm of the catholic church? What was his will in the face of this attraction, the pull of this strong, brave woman? He left, just got up and walked out, but after closing he went back. She unlocked the door and stood in his way. He pushed past, meaning to say something about his willingness to fight for Brendan's job, and that he'd be shipped off next if he wasn't careful. But pushing past meant such proximity - only inches of arm and chest, of real contact, but all the rest in anticipation. She shut the door.

"Well?" she said, searching his static face in the dim light coming from the kitchen.

"I could just kiss you."

She nodded once. "And yet -"

He did. He breathed her in and pulled her close, kissing her as if he hadn't thought about anything else in a month. His hands went to her hips and she sucked in her stomach, to ease his access.

He tugged at the button instead, for a moment disappointing then igniting hope in her - hope for everything, no more clothed pretending, hiding and haste. She reached for his belt.

He said, "What about...?"

They were masters of misunderstanding but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that just now he thought of consequences, contraception. "It's fine," she kissed him again, "covered." She felt him, finally.

He groaned, too loudly. This was too much. This wasn't the right place for this, in the middle of the bar.

"Upstairs," she said into his mouth and watched for an answer.

Eyes closed, he nodded. They went up in the dark.

The light in Assumpta's room was nothing but a green-shaded bedside lamp with a dim bulb. Peter couldn't keep his eyes off her breast - just the one exposed now that she'd pulled up the bedspread.

"Not what you'd expected?"

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. "Is there a right way to answer that?"

She smiled and shifted against him.

"I thought it would be more - more than last time. It was, but not as much as I thought."

"Your crowd always did make a song and dance about a technicality."

"Big technicality."

"But not as big as you thought."

"No."

After a silence, she said, "I'm not sure that is a compliment."

"Hah." He let his head fall back on the pillow and groaned. "Oh, I should go."

She bit her lip to keep from agreeing, or worse, arguing.

Peter sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. She watched rather than heard him sigh. When had he become so precious to her? It was the first time she wanted to stop - for his sake. She couldn't walk, eyes open, into something that would hurt him so badly, so inevitably, but then to end this - whatever this was - made her tense beneath her ribs, then above and below, and it spread like a deep ache for as long as she let the thought hold her.

He'd stood up and was watching her too closely. He saw her concern. He said nothing, pulled on his tshirt and spotted his jacket on the floor in the doorway. The door was wide open. "No guests tonight?"

"Not tonight."

He picked up his jacket and caught her eye, and saw his chance - perhaps his only and final chance - to stay.


	3. The third time it happened

div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"The third time it happened was all Enda Sullivan's fault. Okay, maybe just a little of the blame can be laid at Brian Quigley's door, but when can it not? /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"It was torture, watching Assumpta go out with Enda - watching so little but imagining plenty, and hearing the confessions of Enda's besotted babysitter, and comparing his own hopeless jealousy. He should - should - want her to find someone, to be happy, but all he wanted was that night, over again. He'd stay./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"For Assumpta's part, Enda was supposed to be a distraction, a viable and willing alternative, but he became a test. A test she failed./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""G'night Father," she said, passing Peter in the crowded bar./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""G'night," he said and watched her walk out the door with Enda trailing behind. Peter's face showed nothing. For the first time she doubted what he felt and wanted, doubted her power over him./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Dinner wasn't bad. Enda could look her in the eye and kept the come-ons to a minimum. There was no rush or magic, but magic wasn't to be trusted - clearly./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Still, it was worth a proper try. She'd drop him home and go in for a coffee if he asked - he'd ask, of course he would. He'd try something. She resolved to try. What harm was a kiss? A real test./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"But Fergal was there - and Enda remained far too interested in her staying, not nearly interested enough in what was clearly upsetting his son. She drove home - straight home. Right past Peter's house. /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"The light was on in his kitchen but she drove right past./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She marched into Fitzgerald's. What was she thinking? He was the priest. It had to stop./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"The bar was dark. Niamh had gone. There was a note, "I hope it's very, very late."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Assumpta crumpled the paper and looked at the time. It wasn't that late. Late for Peter, though. Surely he wasn't watching for her return. Rather than consider whether she liked or loathed that idea, she rubbed off the last of her lipstick and swapped her brown jacket for something more wintry and concealing - not that she was cold. In fact her exact reasoning for the jacket, or any given thing, was best not examined closely./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She was worried about Peter. No matter what was going on, he was a friend. He was up late. Something might be the matter. She knocked on his door and waited./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"And waited./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He opened the door with a jersey on his arms but not yet over his head. He stopped when he saw it was her, and not some duty or emergency./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Did I wake you?" She saw his pajama trousers, their pale fabric near-glowing in the dark hall./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""No."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I saw the light."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Oh. I must have forgotten to turn it off."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"So he had been in bed./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""What time is it?" he said./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She didn't answer, only pulled on the jersey where the sleeve bunched at his wrist. He held tight to the wool, stepping back inside and pulling her along with it. The door fell shut, the latch making a soft click. /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He let go of the sweater, let her pull it free, but moved a little away. "How was dinner?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Don't." She ran her hand up his bare arm and inside the loose sleeve of his tshirt./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Okay." He kissed her, embraced her, lifted her right off the ground./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Peter's bed was very much a one-man deal. Assumpta sat up, straddling him, and found herself face-to-face with a crucifix./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""We shouldn't do this here."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He arched his neck to follow her gaze./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Fearing the reality check which that sacrificial figure might inspire, she leaned over him, letting her hair fall around their faces like a curtain./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He let one hand fall from her hip./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She tightened her grip on him and raised herself, drawing him out until he groaned. Seeing him like that pushed her to the brink./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Peter woke to the gentle rhythm and breeze of Assumpta's breath on his chest. Into this other-worldly paradise, intruded the distant but determined notes of an organ./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He could just stay put, pretend. Pretend that he didn't need to gently inform Kathleen Hendly that she had Sunday off-duty; pretend that her temporary replacement wasn't the most eligible man in town, whose gaze was firmly fixed on this delectable and decidedly naked woman with her leg hooked snugly around his; pretend that this delightful being belonged right here, fitted against him like a puzzle piece; pretend that her being here wasn't probably the beginning of the end for his heart, his sanity, possibly his livelihood, his place in this community - oh, he was playing with fire... but fire was warm and silky and smelled like almonds and tea and sex./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"The organ stopped. He needed to get up. The organ began again./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""And I thought I lived too close to the church." Assumpta spoke before she opened her eyes. He couldn't stop looking at her. He'd never again allow himself to see her waking up, if he was smart, so he couldn't miss a detail now: the way her hair fell in zig-zags and scoops, the way her eyelids creased and blinked against the light and how her pupils shrank and then fixed on him and grew again./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I better go," he said./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""That's my line."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""You've got hours till opening. That's -" A ferocious crescendo earned a smile, "That's one of my punters."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""She should be barred."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He drew away, though it hurt. "As a matter of fact, I do have to let her go - for one week anyway. Your date is stepping in."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She shut her eyes and rolled back away from him, so far as the narrow bed allowed. "Oh, we're mad."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Peter sighed and got up. "What are the chances Kathleen Hendly will recognize this exquisite scent?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Assumpta groaned. "Slim, I hope."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""That's what I thought."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She opened her eyes to watch him dress. "It's the grin'll give you away."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He turned to face her, dressed in his all-blacks and turning serious./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""You're forgetting something." She pointed to her own throat./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""No kidding." He leaned down and planted one kiss, right there, above her clavicle. Then he left./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"After dealing, rather unsuccessfully, with Kathleen, he seriously considered returning home. Assumpta might have dozed off and waking her - oh, that he'd enjoy. But he had now lost his organist and he'd best be sure the alternative was confirmed and prepared - and when had going to bed with Assumpta become such an easy decision? Barely a decision at all, in fact. If he'd been certain she was still there, one hand tucked beneath his pillow, then he'd have gone to her. How could he not? Every time might be - must be - the last time and he had apparently abandoned all hope of resistance./div 


	4. The fourth time it happened

The fourth time it happened was only hours after Peter watched her send Enda on his way. The thrill was equal to that of the success of the folk mass. His joy should have been sapped by guilt or feelings of unworthiness, fear of being found out, but somehow all the rush of that only made him want her more, only made him bold. He stayed late, till closing, and then kept his seat while every other person wandered off into the night.

"No end to the celebration, eh Father?" Brendan saluted his farewell.

Padraig swayed a little, "Till kingdom come. 'Night Assumpta."

"G'night," she called from the kitchen.

The door clicked shut. Peter got up and locked it. He could feel his pulse beneath his jaw and stepped back to his pint, all two mouthfuls that remained.

Assumpta came through. "I could lose my license for this." She walked over, right past him, and reached for the latch. "You locked my door."

He wavered but looked her in the eye.

She'd served him four lagers in the past six hours. It wasn't drink that drove him. "Tell me I'm mad." He rocked on his feet, toward her and away again.

She wished he would stand still. "You're mad." She said, then nearly added, ah but I love you for it. The truth of that, just a turn of phrase, shocked her.

"What's wrong?"

To answer that would be to throw a barrel of iced water on what would otherwise easily, inevitably, follow, so she didn't answer. She watched his adam's apple bob and then reached up to touch it.

He just stood there, watching her trace him, until he couldn't still his hands another moment.


	5. The fifth time it happened

div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"The fifth time it happened was not while the abandoned baby slept - not that the baby slept a lot. Peter did a good portion of his housework that night, while Assumpta held the child, as if he needed the place spick and span for their sakes. Holding an infant and watching him was a little too much like playing at what would never be, so Assumpta tried to put the baby down. She leaned over the padded-out box and lingered for minutes that stretched out like the muscles in her back and ached - as if the gradual absence of her arms wouldn't be noticed. /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Peter kept his gaze firmly fixed on the task at hand, or tea, or baby paraphernalia, and if looking in Assumpta's direction was unavoidable, and it often was, then at the baby. Or very near the baby. So close to the baby, in fact, that Assumpta probably couldn't tell he wasn't looking at the baby, but rather the curve of her wrist, the way her thumb brushed unconsciously up and down the tiny leg, the peak of her breast./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"What was it she'd said that first - no, second time? She had it covered. This would never happen for them. No chance./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Good thing./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"No, really, a very good thing./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He was almost convinced, and then she stood up and laughed silently. The baby stayed asleep./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She took a careful step backwards then looked at Peter. "What?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He shook his head, "I made a fresh pot."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"That'd be cup number three. She shook her head and went to get her tea, though only for something to do. And later she'd need the loo several times, probably, so that would be something to do then. Something to keep her from staring at Peter./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He was sitting on the sofa, the baby on his chest, when she returned. Peter said, "He was stirring."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Sure, sure." She sat on the opposite couch./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"A minute later, Peter maneuvered to lie down, the baby still on his chest. Assumpta closed her eyes to keep from watching him./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Put your feet up, please," he said./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She wasn't sleepy but lying on the sofa would angle her gaze away from him. She looked at the ceiling and followed the cracks in the plaster./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I thought it was you, when they knocked on the door," Peter said, "the mother of the baby, I mean - when she knocked, I thought..."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I came to spend the night after all."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Silence./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I thought you'd - I don't know - slipped in the bath."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Oh, so you were hoping for the full monty?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She laughed aloud then clapped a hand to her mouth, remembering the sleeping baby too late. He woke and cried./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Peter sat up and rocked him. "There are worse sounds in the night," he said to the baby, "hush."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Assumpta closed her eyes. /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Sometime later she woke to Peter walking laps and shushing the baby. "You'll wake sleeping beauty and she's more dangerous than you'd think."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Oy." Assumpta sat up./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Oh good. He wants a drink and I haven't enough hands." He held the baby to Assumpta's arms and then pulled his hands free, so slowly. His knuckles brushed her breasts and he exhaled. "What was I - ? Milk. Right."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She fed the baby; he watched./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""You should sleep a little. My shift," she said./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""With this picture in my head?" He hadn't meant to reveal so much but there it was. "I suppose, one day, I'll have christen a child of yours."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Getting a bit ahead of yourself."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""True. First I'll have to - "/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""No. You won't."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He looked at her, searching for meaning. /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""If I ever get married, it'll be in a garden or a registry office. Not some great old church full of images of torture and robed, oppressed women."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""They're images of love."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Not to me."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He couldn't argue with that. He could hardly just ask her, but he desperately wanted to know what love did look like, in her eyes. Was this it? What they could do and be to each other, though briefly and in secret and surely only a fraction of what would be possible if he seriously considered another life. The way she held this unknown child, the way she brought a community together, the way she fought for her friends, and with her friends. No, he didn't need to ask what love meant to her. That was the answer, or as much of an answer as he was prepared for. So he said nothing./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Who's on nappies then?" she said./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Let me."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""You'll hear no argument there."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"In the early hours, just shy of dawn, she decided to leave him to it. He had everything he needed, except sleep, and she was only making that more illusive, apparently. She took him a cup of tea and said, "It'd be easier for everyone if I'm home safe before the busy bodies are up and about."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Thanks." He took the proffered cup./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She ran her fingers up into her hair, hoping it wasn't horribly lopsided from sleeping on the sofa./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Sometimes you're so beautiful, it hurts."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She stopped, removed her hand from her hair. "It only hurts because you're a priest."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He stood up and went to the door. "No - even before I..." Baby in one arm, he opened the door with the other, "Sleep well."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She couldn't look him quite straight in the eye, not till several hours later, when he came to tell her that the baby was off to social services and adoption and that he had decided to give a talk to the youth club./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""You're going to talk to a bunch of kids about sex?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""It was you who gave me the idea."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I wouldn't tell them that."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""No - I mean, some people think family planning is getting the kids to mass on time?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Right. That. Not the other; not the four thorough lessons or near-enough. She wondered - of course she did - if that had been his first time. She could hardly ask, sitting here at the bar, much needed coffees between them. Anyone might come in. Unless he'd locked the door again. Surely not. He must be exhausted. "Did you sleep at all?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He nodded./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Liar."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"His answering look was too serious by far. /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""Another coffee?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""How long till you open?"/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He hadn't meant it like that but he looked her in the eye and surely he understood - he must know by now - how she wanted him./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He put down his coffee cup. He looked nervous which was striking because he had always been too swept up in the moment, the heat and urgency, every other time./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"His thumb was firm on her knee. Then one, two, three, four fingers./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She put her cup down. "Not here."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""It's locked." He slipped off the stool and stood between her thighs. He waited for the nod of her eyelids and then knelt, sliding his hands down to her ankles, then up, inside her skirt./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"Afterward, his bowed head still between her legs, she said. "Teach them that."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""What?" He could still taste her, wanted her so badly it hurt./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""The kids." /div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"He laughed and looked up. She was leaning back on the bar, arched, her stomach convex and then she sat up and nudged her skirt down./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""What am I going to do?" The words fell from his tired tongue./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""I learned most of my lessons in the back of the Ritzy cinema. Had my first kiss in there."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""That's an idea." He took the out she offered because an answer to his - to their future was too much./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She laughed, "The Ritzy shut down years ago."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""No, I mean movies." He stood up, ignoring the way the world paled a little while the blood failed to reach his head - no wonder really./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""You can't go out there like that." She planted her hand on his stomach, slipped one finger under a button on his shirt and found bare skin beneath./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""No." He put his hand over hers. "But it's quarter to eleven and I need to..."/div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"She stood up, wonderfully close./div  
div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;""... learn to resist."/div 


	6. The sixth time it happened

The sixth time it happened Peter had already begun to genuinely think he'd learned to resist. Unsated, untouched, he kept his distance and felt strong again. He even went to confession, in civvies, in another town, and failing to identify himself as a priest - but he did it: he told a stranger that he didn't feel guilt or shame or regret, though he knew he should. The confessor prayed for his conviction and Peter said 'Amen' and meant it. It'd be so much easier to resist her if he could stop playing out scenarios in which they'd be together again, and that'd be easier if he could feel even a little bit bad about how they'd been together in the past.

What he did feel bad about was Niamh and Ambrose's miscarriage, and then in a different way for Assumpta, run off her feet because Peggy was out of action. It had been weeks since he'd gone to Fitzgerald's after hours, but seeing her still working and leaning on the furniture too - he truly only meant to help.  
When she offered him a glass of wine for his troubles, he said, "Finish your drinks. We're closed." But that was off the back of a too-close-to-truth joke about training for a second career.  
She poured him the drink anyway, so when all the tables were clear, the glasses dripping dry, the bar polished to a shine, he tried for a topic of conversation which might distract them from that last time they'd sat here, alone, when he'd knelt between her knees and if he even thought about it he could still taste her. He said, "So what's this terrible thing Niamh said to you?"  
"Oh, that." She wouldn't look him in the eye. "Just something about me wanting what I can't have."  
"Oh." He froze, his glass near his lips. "The human condition." He drank, then froze again. "Did you tell her?"  
"No! No. God, no."  
He drank again, careful not to nod as if in approval. She should be able to talk to her dearest friend about whatever she liked but boy, this would throw Niamh. This would throw everyone.  
"Did you ever," Assumpta began, then shrugged and shook her head, "don't worry."  
"No, what?"  
"Did you tell anyone?"  
"Of course not. If nothing else, keeping secrets is well and truly -"  
She interrupted him, "I mean confession."  
"Oh. Well, not anyone who knows who - what I am."  
She shook her head, barely perceptibly, and then downed her drink, stood up.  
He'd upset her - clearly - but how, he did not know, and he had to know, so he put out his arm and, going past him, she walked into it. He curled his fingers around her waist. "What did I say?"  
"Nothing."  
"Assumpta."  
"You regret it."  
He gripped her hip. "I don't know."  
"You should."  
"I should know?"  
"You should regret it."  
The fog seemed to clear. There was an alternative to regret. If he asked maybe she'd tell him what it was and it would become real, possible, tangible. "And if I can't?"  
She finally, really, looked at him.  
She kissed him, near his mouth. She might have meant to miss. She held his face between her hands, pressed her nose to his, and groaned. He kissed her mouth and tasted tears, and didn't know whose they were.

Stretched out on the floor, in a tangle of clothes and limbs, she listened to his breathing slow. She could feel his heart thumping beneath her hand. She could feel her hair shifting a little with his every exhalation. And then his breath was words. "I love you."  
She held her breath.  
"I love you so much."  
"Don't." She ran her hand up to his open mouth and covered his lips.  
He kissed her hand. "I can't help it." The words reverberated against her palm.  
She wished it was dark, but all the pub lights were still on. There was no hiding from this. "You said you would resist - and you did."  
He put the pieces together, "You wouldn't have stayed away if I hadn't?"  
"It's one thing to welcome you in when you're begging at my door, quite another to beg at yours."  
She was not wrong. If she'd showed up he wouldn't have turned her away. There was resistance and there was resistance.  
She pressed her forehead against the soft flesh between his chest and his shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you. Inevitabe, I suppose."  
"Nineteen days - and if I think about it, I can still taste you."  
She shivered.  
"Afterwards, every time, I can smell you on me. No one notices. I kept thinking, how long could we get away with it? Could we just go on like this?"  
She'd thought the same, wanted the same thing. The alternatives were impossible. But now he'd said it, the answer became clear: if no one ever figured it out, they'd still destroy one another.  
"Eventually, I think I'd grow to hate..."  
"Me?  
"No." He shook his head at the impossibility. "No. The thing that kept me from you."  
She was about to say that she could live with that. But then guilt set in. She couldn't be responsible for that. His faith was an integral part of who he was. She extricated her leg from between his, let the air chill the wet parts of her. "That simplifies matters." She sat up.  
"Hardly." He lifted his head, angled one elbow back to prop himself up, then the other elbow.  
"I can't be responsible for that." She looked at his chest, at the triangle bared between open buttons and absent collar.  
"You didn't plan this, didn't mean for it to happen any more than I did."  
She did up a button on his shirt, then lay her hand on the bare skin above it. "No, but I can mean for it to stop."  
"Is that what you want?"  
"I can't have what I want."  
She watched his face fall. She could have a little of what she wanted - she could make him smile and laugh and sigh and trill. No one gets everything they want. Maybe she should just take what she could get, while it lasted.  
He sat up, pressed his face to her shoulder. "That's my cue, isn't it?"  
"This was always stolen time."  
He kissed her mouth. "A few more seconds."  
She nodded and clung to him. When she let go, he got up and left, barely righting his clothes before he stepped outside. Did he want to get caught? She was so afraid for him. No matter which way it went now, she feared for him. And then for herself. So when he showed up next morning, with bad news about her bar staff, she let her anger run free.  
"In the meantime, well," he looked over at the patch of floor where they'd said their farewells, "I'd offer to moonlight but - " He was trying to keep things light and she just wanted to call bullshit.  
"But what?" She took a stool off the bar and clattered it down onto the floor. "Why are you here?"  
"To tell you about Peggy."  
"Just go, Peter."  
"Assumpta - "  
"Go."  
"We can't just avoid each other."  
"Why not?"  
He gaped.  
"Just go." Her voice ramped up, fast. "Get out."  
He flushed and tensed, his shoulders high. "We have to at least pretend nothing's changed."  
She felt a rush of satisfaction in finally getting him riled. "No audience now."  
"Fine. I just thought we should get on as near to normal as possible."  
"Which normal would that be? The one where we - "  
"The one where we're friends. Come on - this is ridiculous."  
"Well until then, you're not welcome in my bar."


	7. The first time it didn't happen

The first time it didn't happen, the damp remains of Kathleen's house were still warm. Peter went into the pub to comfort Kathleen, but she'd never taken to him and had no intention of doing so now. Doc Ryan suggested she lie down in one of Assumpta's spare rooms for what little remained of the night.

"No, thank you. I want to see it."

Peter said she'd better wait till morning, it was too dark to see anything now.

"Come on," Assumpta led the way upstairs and Doc Ryan shepherded Kathleen along. Peter went to the kitchen for a drink of water.

The doctor came down and called out 'goodnight' from the bar.

Peter put his glass away and stepped through only to find himself face-to-face with Assumpta.

"Making yourself at home?" she said, then reached up and touched his cheek. "How close were you standing to the flames?"

Maybe the adrenaline had kept the burning at bay but now that she drew attention to it, he felt it.

She pulled back her hand. "Michael should take a look."

"I'll be fine. He's gone home."

"Ah, well I probably have something." She went through to the kitchen.

He hesitated, then followed. "It's not serious."

"Oh, but masochism is entirely serious. Here you go." She pulled a bottle of bright blue gel from a cookie tin full of first aid supplies. "I think I bought this for sunburn."

"In Ireland?"

"Haha." She squirted some onto her hands and feeling all the inevitability of it, applied it to his forehead.

He gasped at the cold then sighed.

She thumbed it across his cheeks.

"Thank you."

"Someone else could have taken a turn standing at the front of the line."

He shrugged, "They all have loved ones."

She stopped her hands, voice failing. "You think you're an exception."

"No."

"But they all do."

"It's fine. There was no real danger. It's nothing serious."

"I never said."

He held his breath, not sure he understood her rightly: there was plenty she'd never said and how could he guess or hope for any one thing?

The building creaked, reminding them that Kathleen was upstairs. Assumpta gave the burn gel one last swipe.

"Thanks." He half-turned away. "I'll, ah, see you."

She nodded.

He left.


	8. The second time it didn't happen

The second time it didn't happen was between other acts of dubious morality. Betting on the dogs had failed, for which Peter took more responsibility than he should, though Assumpta could fondly remember a time when she'd have happily blamed him and witnessed his guilt, his long-faced public apology, without an iota of distress. Siobhan was a sure thing in a poker tournament so it wasn't all over yet, and Assumpta wasn't really worried about her liquor license. The poker tournament would cover the bills for Kathleen's house. so that left just one thing for her to worry about: Peter was grave and angry - at himself, she had to assume.

She should have said it.

The unspoken words seemed like a denial by default, a void. He left the bar early that evening, and the night dragged on. She lost her patience and told them all to get an early night in preparation for the tournament but walking Fionn, not ten minutes later, she saw that Peter's light was off. She stopped outside anyway, looked about at the dark, empty streets, the absent audience. She turned to look at the house. Maybe she was imagining the footsteps. She backed away and closed her eyes.

Home time.

Enough.

Then she heard a thump and a cry, and a sob. She stared at the door. A groan from inside and she went to the threshold. For such a timid knock, her knuckles smarted. She spoke into the wood, "Are you okay?" She heard the latch unlock so she pushed the door open.

Peter hopped backwards and sat heavily on the stairs. He picked up one bare foot and rubbed it. "Why does it hurt so much?"

"Kick your toe?"

He hummed the affirmative.

"Nerve endings or something."

"Yeah."

"I wasn't going to come in."

"No?"

"No. But now I know y'haven't broken your back."

Fionn tucked his head around behind the door and then lay down on the floor. The door moved but didn't quite close.

Peter stood up.

She leaned away from him but didn't move her feet. "Better go. Let you sleep."

He scoffed.

"Well I'll hardly make it easier."

"You're the thing that does." He knelt down and scratched Fionn's head.

She held her breath and then spoke, breathless. "I could stay - just stay, nothing against the rules."

He reached for Fionn's belly. "You could."

"Can't do any harm now."

"No."

She wondered if he was lying through his teeth like she was.

He didn't go right to sleep.

"It's hardly the same," she said, as if they were in the middle of a conversation and hadn't been lying there in silence for ten minutes.

"I don't want to sleep now."

She laughed. "Y'are a masochist."

"Not at all. I haven't felt so..." He lifted his chin, nudging and stroking her cheek. "Content..." He didn't - maybe he couldn't - say how long it had been. She nodded, without meaning to, but the same was true of her. This tiny bed was an unlikely good night's rest for one person, never mind two. She heard his breathing shift and deepen. He had fallen asleep after all, and now she fought it off. How many times more could it possibly happen? She could sleep every other night, but she didn't want to miss this: his warm, solid, real body beneath her arm and breast and head, but then she woke up. It hadn't been a dream, but she had slept. And it was light now, and someone was tapping on Peter's door.  
She panicked, though she didn't move or speak, she woke Peter.  
Then she heard Fionn whine. It was just Fionn. She got out of the bed and opened the door. Fionn followed her back to bed.

Peter felt Fionn's weight settle across their legs. They'd just have to stay there. So very not unfortunate. The clock was just out of view and he couldn't bring his head to actually move. He closed his eyes and said, "How'd you manage to sneak out, unseen, the last time?"

"I was seen. Bravado goes a long way."

"They assumed you were just - "

"I have no idea."

"Think it'll work twice?"

"It'll be less risky with you actually here." She turned her face into his chest, "I wasn't so much worried that someone would see me, but that they'd have just seen you some place else. Visiting you at home is one thing, leaving on my own is a bit more..."

He ran his fingers up her back, her neck, into her hair until she moaned appreciation. He sighed and spoke, his lips moving against her forehead, "So no hurry then." Except that the poker tournament was only hours away.

"Hm. No place at all to be today."

"No minor crimes to commit."

"No license to lose."

He reached for another thing to say, the next line in their easy back-and-forth. It popped into his head but fell over against the back of his teeth and gave him something like brain freeze. In the silence, the words, "No reason to sleep alone ever again," dug into his temples and forced his eyes closed.

It wasn't true, after all. There were lots of reasons, but they were losing weight, slipping. He scrambled after them but could get no traction.

"Come on you big lump," she said - to Fionn, Peter realised, with something too much like envy.


	9. The third time it didn't happen

The third time it didn't happen, Assumpta thought she was being punished. Burst pipes and an exploding tank, closely followed by that phone call from Stevie – a wine bar in Dublin, sure it sounded swish, and glamour aside, Stevie was great. It'd be a lot of fun – and why had she not thought of it before? Leaving Ballykay seemed suddenly, painfully obvious. Leave Peter. Leave home.

About bloody time.

But when she told Niamh, when she heard herself say that no one else would miss her, she knew it wasn't true. If she left for Peter's sake, she couldn't trick herself into thinking it wouldn't hurt him too. And it'd hurt more because she could hardly discuss it with him at length before hand. She'd have to say something but if it were just him, in a room, looking at her with goodbye in his eyes and his heart in his mouth... she'd do something foolish. Or change her mind and never leave.

He was around a lot these days. It was strange and wonderful, their friendship now. In many ways she didn't want to leave when things were so easy, so warm and honest – between them if not with another soul. They were like some kind of secret team, spies undercover, or partners in a business venture, planning a surprise party. Except they were making no plans. Their combined efforts were focused on maintaining this equilibrium.

And she'd betray him. She'd tell him it was for both their sakes and it was a great opportunity with a dear old friend, not just running away. But what would he say? She couldn't come up with anything. Maybe that was it, he'd stand there full of feeling and say nothing. They'd go back to how they'd been before... silent. Guessing. Unknown.

Because that was the magic ingredient, wasn't it? Being known. That was the thing that made this bearable and wonderful. He wouldn't touch her but he knew her. She knew him. She'd seen him, heard him, felt him. She loved him. And he'd seen, heard and felt her. For all that, he loved her. They'd lay just here, on the floor on the other side of the bar and he'd said the words. He'd said it twice, as if once wasn't enough.

And she still hadn't said it. Maybe it was different for him – this new equilibrium. He'd never heard her declare how she cared for him and he might not feel this same ease, sitting across the bar, looking her in the eye with all that knowing – but not knowing. Not for sure. It was one of those things that you could suspect and on some level believe but until you heard it there was no real knowing.

She'd tell him. And then she'd leave him.

But timing was key.

In the end, he forced her into it – while the revenue men were waiting on their ham sandwiches, no less.

Peter closed the kitchen door on their conversation, as if they hadn't a thing in the world to hide from every man in the pub. He looked at her with pain and desperation in his green eyes. "Is it true you're leaving?"

Niamh had told him! No. Not like this. "This place drives you mad. Say something, you might as well post it on a wall."

"Are you?" He wasn't going to let her put it off.

But she was going to try. "Right now I have something rather more important on my mind." She opened the pantry, switched the light on.

"Beer?"

"Yeah." She closed the door and turned off the light.

"What about it?"

"It's _duty free_?"

"What do you mean?" Oh, his wide-eyed innocence was too much.

"It was smuggled into the country. I didn't pay any duty on it."

"What?"

"I had burst pipes and an exploding tank to pay for. I had to do it."

"You had me carry it in for you."

"Don't be so pious."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Whether I should sell bootleg beer?"

"You know what I mean – about leaving ballykay."

"I hadn't decided anything yet." It was a lie. Could he tell? But what was the point in lying? "I didn't know how to tell you without..." She closed her eyes.

"Because of me?"

She felt rather than saw him step closer. "No. Well not just that. It's a great opportunity and this place is falling down around my ears."

"But you wouldn't leave if it weren't for..."

He was close now. So close, she had to look at him.

"This is your home," he said.

"We're making it work. I know, we are. I don't want to leave, but don't you see, that's why I have to."

He nodded.

She felt his body heat against her forehead. She looked up at him. "They're waiting for me out there."

He nodded, backed away and was gone. Too soon.

She wasn't ready. But the revenue men were waiting – for ham sandwiches and then some... something. Just what exactly kept them all on their toes. Next time she saw Peter he was back in her kitchen but with half the village crowded around - and he was sticking his neck out for the lot of them. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last.

She stood in the pub and watched as he was serenaded by Padraig, Brendan and one of the revenue men – a diversion if you'd believe it. And next minute it was Quigley he was covering for. The man would make a martyr of himself.

Then she heard them – those lousy rats. "Let's give the priest a hard time," the one said. She didn't know what she was going to do, but something. He'd stuck his neck out and got away with it till now – till now he'd done nothing more than ruffle Father Mac's feathers and frankly she'd pay good money to watch that for sport.

She was out the door, leaving Siobhan and Brendan to mind the place – clearly she wasn't thinking straight. She watched the revenue men drive off. What could she do though? She was powerless. She hated being powerless but that was just it, wasn't it? She was powerless on all fronts. There was no right way to do leave town, no right way to stay. She'd break his heart one way or the other. And her own too. But the revenue men – they were just messing with him, surely. They weren't after him. They'd been in town for days before Peter took a step wrong. She just had to tell him, warn him – find a way to convince Peter not to sacrifice himself for Quigley or herself or anyone.

But Niamh hijacked her. Assumpta couldn't turn her friend away. Niamh was pregnant. And overjoyed and desperate to tell her Dad.

They were all at Peter's. She heard them before she saw them - the revenue men, Peter and Brian.

And it was Niamh who saved the day. Talk about a diversion. The _duty-free_ drink was for the party, to celebrate the baby – but of course.

The revenue men left, followed by a glowing Niamh and a relieved Quigley.

Assumpta blocked the doorway. This was her chance. The immediate danger of losing her licence had passed. No more excuses and she was quickly running out of time.

"We'd better get this all to the party," Peter said.

"In a minute."

He looked at her properly.

"It's just..." Oh, why did it have to be so hard? She'd been so close earlier. It had felt like a battle not to say how she loved him, but now...

He sighed. "I understand, Assumpta. I do."

"But there's knowing and there's knowing."

He looked confused.

She stepped closer but stopped too soon, too far away. Oh, there seemed no good way to do this. No good distance between them.

"You're trying to do the right thing. You're doing what I can't. I should thank you." His voice was nothing but a whisper on the last.

"It's not the right or wrong of it. There is no way to do this right. None that I can think of. I love you." Now she was whispering. "I love you. I have to try to... to do whatever will hurt you the least."

He kissed her – a fierce meeting of mouths and then bodies. He lifted her up and away from the door, to the side. Out of sight. He held her so tight it hurt but she relished the pain, the _feeling_, the proof that this was real. She opened her eyes, still kissing him. She didn't mean to stop. It was the shock of seeing the desperation and passion in the lines on his forehead, the twist of his cheek, the set of his brow. His eyes were closed, the blood vessels in his eyelids snaking across and vanishing deeper, out of sight. Had anyone ever really looked at his eyelids?

Maybe his mother, when he was a child.

He lifted his lips from hers, opened his eyes, but didn't look her in the eye. "When I'm with you," he whispered, "nothing else makes sense. Or rather, the whole world makes more sense, but not my part in it. I don't know that I can keep from begging you to stay."

She touched his chin, lifted his gaze to meet hers. She didn't say a word. She'd said all she could and if he begged – she didn't know how she'd answer.

"You'll move on." He lifted his hands free of her. "We'll both move on." He made fists as if to keep from touching her again. He looked troubled, disturbed by the prospect of moving on, or by the necessity of not touching her.

"You've believed more impossible things."

He almost smiled at that.

She envied his capacity for believing in the impossible.


	10. The fourth time it didn't happen

p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"The fourth time it didn't happen, Peter was angry and confused. She hadn't left town. Everyone knew she meant to but it just didn't happen. No explanation. No reason./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"He cornered her one evening, as the regulars were leaving. He'd drunk more than usual. This interminable limbo, waiting for something, dreading it, was easier to bear if he was less than sober. Resisting her, of course, was much more difficult in such a state but he was feeling bold. What did he have to lose, really? Wasn't he losing her anyway?/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"He walked as if to the accommodation entrance and then doubled back to the kitchen, coming through the other way and catching her by surprise. She jumped, then smiled, laughing at her own fright, then she turned serious and got on with cleaning up as if he wasn't there./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""We need to talk."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She didn't agree or disagree but she walked out to the bar and came back with four empties hanging from her fingers on each hand./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""I have to know – when? I live in dread of you leaving but if it's going to happen-" Damn it, why would she not stand still? Why would she not look at him?/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She paused, half-shook her head, then went back out to the bar./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Well, fine. He'd help her clean up, wait out the silence. Let her figure out how to say whatever she wanted to say – or perhaps didn't want to say, but he needed to hear it. If waiting would get it out of her, he'd wait./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"And work, sure, why not?/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"He ran the hot tap, squirted detergent in, too far from the stream. The soap sat there, a glob, barely moving though the water around it swirled. He picked up the dish brush but waited. Eventually, a tendril of thick yellow liquid pull away, tugged by the current. Suds began to foam on the surface. They blocked his view of the soap on the bottom of the sink./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""You don't need to do that," Assumpta said./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"He turned, dry dish brush still in hand./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She had her hands full of glasses again and delivered them to the sink, careful not to touch Peter, though he stood right in the way. She stopped there, beside him, shoulder to shoulder, minus any actual contact, and facing the opposite direction. She said, "I can't ask Niamh to run the place. Not now."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""Because of the baby." It wasn't a question. He was thinking out loud. He should really put a stopper in that. Voicing his thoughts was dangerous, and less so around Assumpta than another soul in all the world./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""I need someone to run the pub. There's no one."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"He remembered Quigley's offer to buy it off her. At least she wasn't considering that – or she was, and just wasn't saying so. "You won't take Quigley up on his offer?"/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""If it were anyone but Quigley – no. This is my home."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"So that was it. She would stay. He almost laughed at the flood of relief. He bit back a smile, glad she wasn't looking at him – but then she was, sideways and so close./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""I'm sorry," she said./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""I'm not."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She looked away. "So you won the Turkey?" It was a blatant subject change but he didn't mind. He hummed in the affirmative. Her shoulder touched his for a moment, and then she shifted so that it didn't, but she didn't move any further away. She said, "You'll have leftover sandwiches for a week."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She was not wrong. A whole turkey for his Christmas dinner – it was ridiculous. He should invite Brendan – or someone – to join him. Or half the town. They'd done a big thing, all of them together, at Assumpta's last year. He could contribute his turkey to the pot. He could suggest it. He looked at her. He'd helped clean up last year, stood almost like this with her – oh, but things had changed somewhat since then./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Christmas with her – no, a terrible idea. A dangerous idea. A week of turkey sandwiches was no bad thing./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She said, "Go home, Peter."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"He turned back to face the sink and stirred the suds with the dish brush. The glasses she'd put in the sink clunked together. He pulled one up and washed it, wetting the edge of his cuff in the process. What was he doing here? What was he trying to prove? He hadn't even rolled up his sleeves, so doing the dishes hadn't really been his intent. He dropped the dish brush and unbuttoned one cuff./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Assumpta sighed. He felt her touch on his arm again but it wasn't her shoulder. She rested her head - an offer of support, a bid for something similar in return. He met her gaze in their reflection, in the dark window. No one was out there, in the night. Nobody walked through the trees or up the mountain – not at this time of night. No one would see them standing there, her head on his shoulder./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"If she'd answered his question another way – if she'd still been planning to leave – then this would have been goodbye. But she wasn't planning to leave, so they had no excuse. How had he not realised, till this moment, that he'd been hoping for an excuse to stay with her?/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Things had changed that day in his shed. Everything had changed, in fact. She loved him. She would leave her home if it was the best thing for him./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Except she wouldn't – she couldn't./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Could emhe/em? Could he put in for a transfer? Tell Father Mac something near the truth, that ought to do it, and then pack up his things and make his excuses, say goodbye from the pulpit and again from the pub./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"And then they'd spend one last night together./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"And then he'd go./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Back to England./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Home./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Hardly. Ballykay was home. He didn't know much about laicisation but he knew that leaving the neighbourhood was preferred. There'd be pressure to do so./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"Of course he'd thought about it. It was a possibility – technically – so it was there, in the back of his mind. Possible./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"But the church would want him gone - far from his home – and her from hers. It was Assumpta emor/em Ballykissangel. One or the other. Or biting off a lot more than they could chew./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She closed her eyes, her head still warm and heavy on his arm. "We almost look ordinary."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"They did too. "Is it ordinary – is this how other people feel?"/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"She nodded. "Something like this, I suppose."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""Have you felt this way before?"/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;""No." She opened her eyes. "Not that I... no." She lifted her head and turned away. "You should go home. I'm not leaving. We needn't make the most of... anything."/p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"emWe needn't make the most of anything./em The words tracked a path in his head, all the way home. His house was cold and dark and he went straight up stairs, without a light, changed into pajamas, climbed into bed. Sometimes he could catch the scent of her there - though it was probably nothing but his imagination. He breathed deep in the pillow, pulled the covers over his head. He couldn't even imagine it. It had been too long, now./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"emWe needn't make the most of anything./em We needn't make the most of what? Love? Life? But that was just what they needed to do. He'd preached this sermon. Life was a gift, a sacred and wonderful gift. They really emmust/em make the most./p  
p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 100%;"But that meant what? Loving her or leaving?/p 


	11. The fifth time it didn't happen

The fifth time it didn't happen was all the Turkey's fault - and that fool of a seminarian, Timmy. In fact, you might say it was Father Mac's fault but I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Feelings were running high after all the drama with Con O'Neill and Kevin and the stash in the mine. And then Peter... Oh, the poor man. The javelin.

Assumpta gave him drink after drink and called it medicinal. She called her own drink medicinal too. Her friends had bailed but here she was, surrounded by friends and totally at home, and sitting beside the love of her life. How was she ever supposed to leave? Here she was wanted and needed. No one seemed to notice or mind that the pair of them were thick as thieves.

She had a niggling suspicion there was something else – something other than the demise of the Javelin – driving Peter to the bottom of the glass faster than usual. But she wouldn't ask anything more searching than, "Y'alright?"

"I am now." He tipped it back. Then he saw her watching, worrying, and he said, "Don't ask me tomorrow."

She laughed and then drank, to cover her mouth as much as anything. She looked around, at all their friends, and wondered if anyone had ever... wondered. Too wrapped up in their own lives, their own concerns big and small, and maybe it was just that unlikely. Peter – a man who'd never fudged his taxes – would never...

And she – she'd not happily invite a priest into her home, let alone her bed, or so they all thought.

And yet, here they were.

He went home. She'd wondered, hoped, he'd stay. Not _stay _but hang back a little. It was a good thing he didn't of course. The man was well drunk. But the next morning she had just a whiff of a hangover and usually she'd lie in, sleep through the worst of it, but she couldn't go back to sleep.

She made a pot of coffee – a whole pot and god knows why, for only herself. She drank her cup and thought of all the reasons _not _to go over there.

She went anyway, a thermos of strong brew in-hand. He'd left his door unlocked – no surprise, the state he'd been in. Drunkeness, the most favourite of all sins in Ireland. As common among the clergy as the laypeople.

Had they, somewhere along the way, become a sad joke, predictable and pathetic? A drunk priest and a seductress behind the bar?

She looked about. The coast was clear, so she closed the door on Ballykay and – well, she knew her way around now, so why not? She went right on up. He was groaning – she heard him before she saw him.

"Knock knock," she said, quiet as she dared.

He stopped groaning and peaked out from under his hand. The lines in his brow smoothed. He closed his eyes and smiled. "You're an angel."

"Hardly." She sat beside him, her hip nudging against his shoulder, and put the flask on the nightstand. "Coffee?"

He snaked his arm around her and pressed his nose into her side, somewhere near her liver. He breathed deep and then groaned a different kind of groan.

She put her hand on his head, meaning to pull him away, warn him off, but her fingers remembered the texture of his hair and her chest swelled. His arm tightened around her waist. He spread his fingers. She was almost sure he hadn't meant to, but he found the edge of her t-shirt, her bare skin.

It was all she could do not to disrobe and grab him right then, right there. She extricated her fingers from his hair and unscrewed the lid of the thermos. His fingerprint felt marked on her skin. She poured coffee into the lid and tried to steady her hands. She took a sip – it wasn't too hot.

"Sit up." She patted his shoulder and hoped to God he'd let go of her before she did something stupid.

He did as he was told, but not as she'd imagined. He lifted face, running his cheek up her side, his nose brushing against her breast. He didn't pause, didn't investigate further. He pushed himself up, his hands against the bed, just as they would be – as they had been – if he were above her, making love. Oh, she might not have much of a hangover but her head was not good this morning. She held the coffee aloft for him.

He pressed his cheek into her shoulder, catching the neckline of her tshirt with the rough of a day's growth, and then he touched his lips to her neck and she almost dropped the coffee. "Stop," she said, too near to begging.

She must have sounded desperate because he did stop. She put the coffee in his hand with such force it slopped and marked the sheet.

Oh, she should leave and fast. She had sex on the brain (not to mention the tugging low in her abdomen) and they'd been doing so well. Neither were in any state to resist. Or perform well, for that matter.

Not that performance had ever really registered – no, that wasn't the right word for how they'd been together.

He drank his coffee in half a dozen sips, and then sculled the rest and banged the cup down and cringed at the sound.

She sighed and smiled and touched his temple. "Do you have anything to take?"

"Asprin, you mean?"

She nodded.

"Somewhere. What was I thinking?"

"I think _not _thinking was probably the goal."

He groaned and lay back, careful and slow for the sake of his head. "Oh, my car. I forgot."

She put her hand on his chest.

He covered it with his own and took hold, pulled her closer. She resisted, a moment. The angle was awkward. Nothing was going to happen, she felt certain. Now that he wasn't breathing against her skin, tasting her, she felt strong.

He wended his fingers between hers and lifted them to his lips. "Make me forget."

Every pore cried out for contact. It was like a tug-o-war just to stay upright. He had asked but he was in no fit state. It'd be taking advantage. But –

He sat up. His head must be pounding, but he didn't wince. He released her hand and it landed on his leg. He looked her in the eye – asking. Not demanding, not begging. Just asking.

And she didn't budge. It was an answer, of sorts.

He opened his palm against her arm and worked up to her shoulder. Too slowly. He opened his mouth in awe and concentration, watching his own hand on her skin. She shivered and he smiled. "I love you."

She kissed him. She had no intention of stopping now, so why wait another moment? He tasted of coffee, rich and bitter. He lay back and pulled her with him. He ran wonderfully bold hands down her body and then stopped, gripping her hips like a man with a plan. He gritted his teeth and wriggled down the bed. It would have been comical if she weren't so impatient for him to get where he was going.

And then the turkey came in. It flapped and gobbled and squawked as she had not realised a turkey could. Peter stopped and lay his head against the still-closed fastening of her jeans. He laughed, the vibration of it going right through her.

Then Timmy called out, "Sorry! He got in when I went for the paper."

Peter stopped laughing. Assumpta pulled the covers up over her head. She pulled her foot right under the blankets and doing so brought her knee up and caught him right there.

He gasped, moaned so low the sound wouldn't carry

She mouthed her apology in the dark.

Peter lifted the blanket and sat up. "It's fine, Timmy. I've got it under... control." He let the blanket drop over Assumpta. There was no knowing, from the sound of his voice, if Timmy had come upstairs, or if that tone was just because he'd heard himself, heard the irony in his words.

Peter climbed over her and she heard the bird moving around, and then the door shut. She peaked out. She was alone in the room.

She heard Peter say something, but she couldn't make out actual words. It was definitely his voice, through the wall and down the stairs, and then Timmy answered and laughed.

It seemed an hour till Peter returned. She had time to right her clothes, her hair, and dismiss every nook and cranny of the room for a hiding place. If Timmy came in, the game was up.

Peter looked as pale as a coffee-stained sheet. In no hurry at all, he closed the door and leaned on it. He met her gaze and waited.

She stood up.

He put a finger to his lips.

They heard the door downstairs close.

Peter said, "He's taking the turkey to a parishioner."

"Oh."

"One of several who'd rather an Irish accent reading the mass."

She shook her head.

He laughed. "You thought the same thing, once upon a time, though maybe not about mass."

"Once upon a time." She took another step, touched her forehead to his chest. "I should go – while I can."

He nodded.


	12. The sixth time it didn't happen

The sixth time it didn't happen was only a day later. Thirty hours, tops. They'd crossed paths at Hendly's store, looked at one another across the dried goods, and in Assumpta's sharp dark eyes Peter found not their tempered-by-fire friendship, knowing and being known, loving and being loved, warmer still for how much must forever remain a secret – no. Not that. In her gaze lay certainty. Certainty that if it weren't for Timmy and the turkey, they'd have finished what they started. And it didn't end there. She knew – they both knew – it would have been something new. Knowing she loved him, hearing the words crest her tongue while he was inside her – it would have been something entirely new.

It would have happened.

It might yet.

He was a man possessed, hours later, though he'd had time to cool off, to regain sense.

Not this time. The lunch crowd, if there'd been one, would be gone. She'd be alone. He walked into the pub door and half-sprained his wrist wrenching the locked handle.

That couldn't be right. He'd been so sure of what would happen. But the pub was shut-up.

He rubbed his wrist and turned, half-aware that his behaviour might attract unwanted attention. And there, by the bench outside, was Fionn's water bowl.

She'd be walking the dog.

He crossed the road, narrowly escaping a moving vehicle, and scampered down to the river, looking one way, then the other.

When he found her, she was turning homeward. "Fancy meeting you here," she said.

The fire went out of him. The same certainty met him in her gaze but his madness cooled. He saw himself from a distance, from outside of himself.

He'd broken his vows.

He intended to do it again.

He was using her – this was not love.

Oh, he loved her, but this was no way to truly love someone. If he meant it – if he really meant it – he'd give up the church, and if he couldn't do that, then what was he?

A lousy lover.

A worse priest.

"What's the matter?" Assumpta stopped in front of him.

He shook his head.

"Has something happened?"

He turned away from her but there was Ballykay, his parish, the people he'd betrayed. He turned back to her. Her beloved face, taut with concern was too much. He walked into the trees - but there'd be no walking this off. No distance or exertion could save him now.

He aimed for a tree root to sit on, and missed, grazing his side on the rough bark. He hissed and tugged on his coat to cover what would no doubt be a measly scratch, but in the cold it stung. Assumpta had followed him but stopped a few steps back and waited. Fionn was less tactful, nudging his nose against Peter's hands, and then, without further ado, his crotch. It should have been funny.

"What have I done?" Peter said.

"I don't know. What have you done?"

"You're the only one who does know."

"Right. That." She sat on the tree root.

"I came after you with every intention of... doing it again."

"Did you now?"

He longed for a time (not 20 minutes ago) when he'd have enjoyed her mirth. "I'm using you. I'm betraying everyone. You – they all – deserve better."

"You're a good priest, Peter, and I went into this with my eyes open. You don't owe me anything."

He looked up at her. How could she say that? Of course he owed her something. "You should be with someone who can give you everything."

"This is the real world, Peter."

"Aye."

She sighed.

Fionn made himself comfortable, lying across their feet.

"I'm a coward."

She just scoffed.

"A brave man would..."

"What? Leave the church?"

It was strange, affronting to hear her say it, but that was exactly it. "Exactly."

"I never expected that."

That was shocking. It caught him by surprise just how shocking that was. If she'd never expected then maybe she didn't even want that. Maybe he was straddling a precipice and falling either way, he'd lose her.

"So you see," she cocked her head to the side, "if you're wanting to play the blame game, then I'll take an equal share, and the church can have their part too."

He looked out at the river. The church? He refused to blame the church – but she was entitled to, if she liked. He wouldn't fight with her about that. Not now.

"If they changed the rules, what would you do?" Her voice wavered and shrank.

"What's the point in even considering..."

"Just answer the question."

"Beg you to marry me. And beg you again. And keep on till I drove you away."

She looked like she was laughing at him. "That's not quite how it would go."

"No?"

"I'm not going to force you to choose. And neither are they. You're good priest, Peter. You could tell them everything and they'd probably just tell you to keep it quiet, say your prayers, pay your dues."

"But I can't live like this."

He saw her blink and swallow and twist her mouth. "Well then..." She opened her mouth as if to say something more. Instead, she stood, shoving Fionn off her feet. She took a few steps away. Fionn didn't follow.

She turned and patted her hand to her leg, beckoning the dog.

He shifted against Peter's legs and then his weight settled again. Peter wasn't going anywhere.

"Fine." Assumpta walked away, left them there.


	13. The seventh time

The seventh time was a long silent month later. New Year's came and went with all the usual disappointments, resolutions were being broken (before Assumpta's eyes, more often than not) left, right and centre, and the winter blues were setting in without a snowflake in sight.

Peter was back to avoiding her. Fair enough, considering, but meanwhile, she was playing that blame game, the one she'd accused him of. Her fury was comfortably aimed at the stony institution who'd pitched their tent across the street, long before her family painted their name above the door of this pub, but an overindulgence in here had never done so much damage as the archaic, oppressive morals handed down over there.

Peter did come in, finally, but he was with Brendan on arrival and left, one lager later, with Siobhan. He looked tired.

He came in more and more often, but never stayed long. He barely spoke to her.

And then there was the thing with the statue. And Assumpta's dormant fury slipped out and, as Brendan so elegantly put it, kneed Peter's vocation in the groin.

She apologised – the closest they'd come to being alone in weeks, and she made a right hash of it too. God, he was talking like he was about to throw in the towel, give it all up, and not just the collar, but the lot of it. It felt like a prophecy, a foreshadowing of what would happen if she remained a part of his life.

Then one late Sunday evening, she was walking Fionn and as she passed the church, Peter was locking up. She didn't break stride; she didn't need to. He met her at the gate.

"Evening," she said, pausing with every intent of continuing on after a passing greeting.

"I tested your theory," he said.

"My theory?" She dreaded his answer. She couldn't be responsible for him losing his faith.

"I confessed everything. I even told him," he exhaled, "who I was."

Oh. That theory. Shit. "And?"

"He's not taking it to the higher-ups so in one way you're right, but he did say..." Peter shook his head. Was he laughing?

She could only see half his face, thanks to a distant street lamp, and weeks of minimal contact made her distrust her instincts about him. "What did he say?"

"I have to choose."

So that was that. She knew what he'd choose – maybe that was why she'd never asked him to make the choice. "Right."

She gave Fionn's leash a tug and took a step toward the rest of her walk.

"But I have to be sure that," he turned on the spot to remain facing her, "that you – that we – are prepared for what'll happen. If it means leaving Ballykay. If it means hurting or at least confusing all of our friends. If it means -"

"You're thinking of leaving?"

He nodded.

"Of leaving the church?"

"You're surprised."

She scoffed. _Surprised_ didn't quite cut it.

"Assumpta, I love you. I've done a lousy job of showing it but don't doubt – please don't."

"I didn't doubt that," she said, and realised the truth of it.

He touched her shoulder. "Can we talk?"

He made tea and talked and talked. It was a lengthy process full of hoops to jump through, and though technically optional, one hoop recommended they get the hell out of dodge – though Peter didn't put it quite like that.

She stilled his restless hands when he started clearing his kitchen table. She said, "If it's what has to happen..."

"It isn't."

"I know but," she removed her hand from his, "when I think of how Niamh will react, let alone everyone else, maybe that wine bar in Dublin needs a bus-boy as well as a manager. From Dublin we'll only be able to hear faint echoes of Niamh's thousands of questions."

Peter sat down. He held his tea cup but didn't drink. "Do you want this?"

"How can you not know?"

"Well it's not all sunshine and daisies."

"Not a daisy in sight, in fact." She moved closer, barely on her chair. "I love you."

He almost smiled.

"So, do it."

He definitely smiled.

"I mean start the process, not..."

He laughed. God, it had been an awfully long time since she'd seen him laugh.

She watched as he stopped laughing and looked at her lips. She reached up to kiss him and tottered on the edge off her chair. He reached for her but her foot slipped and she crashed to the ground, grabbing at him too late, her face against his leg. She laughed.

"Are you okay?" he said.

She couldn't stop laughing.

He laughed too, and stroked her hair and sighed. "Want a hand up?"

She shook her head, hiding her reddening cheeks.

"I'm quite fond of you blushing."

That set off another round of giggles. What was this? Nerves? Relief? She took a deep breath and started to get up, trying and failing to keep a straight face until she saw his – pupils wide open and focussed intently on her.

He said, "Are we really doing this?"

She stopped, still on one knee, and nodded.

He put a hand beneath her elbow and she stood up. Then she reached down and kissed him, slow and full of care, savouring the very shape of the soft peak of his top lip, the taste of his skin, the texture of his tongue - but it was one little kiss. There seemed no hurry now. "So it'll be a few weeks till you say anything – to anyone..."

"Except Father Mac."

"Right." She stepped away.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. But he didn't say anything.

"And then?"

"And then I tell everyone at once, from the pulpit."

"Oh, God."

"You can tell Niamh. You're free to tell anyone. They don't get to tell you what to do."

"Yeah, but I'm hardly going to write it on a wall."

"I just mean, you can tell Niamh." He shrugged. "Siobhan, Brendan, whoever you want to hear it from you rather than me – from a friend, rather than the official story."

"Is the official story different from the truth?"

"Just the wording, the specifics."

"What about if we both go away – don't tell anyone anything? You say you're off on a pilgrimage and I've got my Wine bar line, no one would doubt it, and we'll come back once it's all blown over."

"You're joking but that is the option." He let go of her arm. "Thing is I'm not sure it'll be easier to tell everyone months down the track."

"It'd be easier for the next few months at least. We wouldn't have to hide and pretend."

"It be more of a betrayal."

"Betrayal's a strong word."

He raised his eyebrows as if asking if he were wrong - and he wasn't, not really.

She sighed. If they were some place else they could eat a meal together without looking over their shoulders. They could talk without lowering their voices, and touch without pretence. They could be alone. They could wake up together, share a tube of toothpaste, a pint of milk, a loaf of bread.

Not in Ballykissangel. Not for months. Years, maybe, before she could be with him in public and not second-guess every word, every move. "Right, well, I'll tell Niamh, but that's it. And not yet. Saturday night before the Sunday morning when you set this storm in motion. Not before. I don't want her eyes on us."

"We'll have eyes on us for a while."

"Yeah." All the puzzle pieces were settling into place. She'd never really thought it through. Not like this.

He stood up. "You're sure you want this?"

She nodded and reached for him, hugging him like lives depended on it. He took a moment to respond and then his went arms around her waist and held so tight that he lifted her onto her toes, high enough to press his face against her neck.

"No eyes on us now," he said, so softly she wasn't sure she'd heard right. Then he apologised and tried to let go of her. "Can't even blame the drink this time."

"What are you sorry for?"

"You know."

"No, I don't."

"Well," he met her gaze and wavered, "no you're right. I'm not sorry for that. Just for putting this off so long."

"It's a big decision. Plenty of people are going to say we rushed in. You don't need to apologise to me for anything."

He put both hands on her face, pushing back her hair. "I love you, Assumpta."

"I know." She smiled a wicked twist of a smile.

He pressed his forehead against hers.

She kissed him.

He panicked a moment, when she moved away. Flush against him in the weak light of his bedside lamp, he couldn't see her well, couldn't read her face. As far away as she could be, still under the covers, she rested her head on one hand and regarded him.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing." She traced a fingertip around his nipple and then worked her way across that rib to his breastbone. She followed the centre-line of his chest, as if performing heart surgery or something, all the way up to his clavicle. "Just looking," she said.

He couldn't quite get his head around the evidence that she felt as much as he did, that she was as moved, as effected, just by looking at him, as he was looking at her.

"Strange," she said, "not much more than an hour ago I thought I'd never do this again."

He hummed his agreement. "To think we might actually lose count, at some point."

She looked thoughtful, then said, "Seven."

He raised his eyebrows then turned mischievous. "Maybe eight could be in a bigger bed."

She grinned. "Oh, I don't know. There's no accounting for how well I've slept in this one."

"Isn't there?"

She conceded and pressed her lips to his chest, returned to her place, snug against his side for a moment, and then sat up on her knees, straddling one of his legs. The blankets fell from her. His chest felt too full at the sight. She leaned over to kiss his chest again, her breasts grazing his stomach. She kissed there next, just above his belly button. Her breasts framed his response. He didn't know it could be like this – he'd already come twice, but his pulse pounded and his mind raced with what she might do next.

She kissed low on his stomach and then rested her head there and moaned low – he felt it more than heard it. She said, "I love you."

The weak light suddenly felt fierce, pricking at his eyes.

Then he felt the touch of her tongue, then her lips, and he closed his eyes.

She looked up as soon as she dared. If there'd been a way she could watch, and do that at the same time, but she only had to close her eyes and remember how he looked, losing himself in her.

But now she looked and saw tears on his cheeks.

"Was it too much?" The words fell from her lips, so vulnerable she surprised herself.

"No." He sat up, reaching for her. "No."

"Why are you crying?" Apparently all her inhibitions had melted away. Every thought in her head tumbled out of mouth.

"I'm not."

She touched his cheek.

"Truly." He kissed her then pressed his nose to hers. "It was always an end before. It was always supposed to be the last time."

She must have beamed. "Happy tears."

He nodded. "We've barely begun."

"Is that right?"

"I don't mean tonight."

"I didn't think so."

"Is that – I mean, three times, is that normal?"

"I don't know." A weak indignation tickled the back of her neck at his asking, assuming she was such an expert.

"Sorry. I didn't mean – I just... I have no idea."

"If you've something to be proud of?" She watched him blush and kissed the pink of his cheek. "Tell me, was," oh, this was unnecessary. Why was she doing this? Was it too late to change the subject?

"Was what?"

"Was it your first time?"

"Tonight?" He looked almost smug for a moment, then took a deep breath. His exhale became a nod. "It was."

She nodded.

"Was it obvious?"

"No. Was it not clear I liked it?"

"It was, but..."

"I've never pretended – well, not like that. We've enough pretending in our lives."

"True." He gathered up the blanket and lifted it over her shoulders, then lay back and pulled her down. "Stay?"

She nodded against his chest. He was right about it being the beginning, but it would be months till they could be together night after night without taking foolish risks. If they wanted to stay in Ballykissangel they'd have to tread lightly. "We should be careful."

"Not to be caught?"

"Yeah." Well, and the other. "You thought I meant..." She felt bold and stupid, almost saying it just like that.

"I wasn't thinking of that," he said, but the subject clearly hadn't taken him by surprise. Was that good or bad? It bugged her but she was too ready to be annoyed. What was wrong with her. So what that he'd considered potential pregnancy? So what that he'd thought about the future? That didn't mean he was actively thinking about it. What was she doing, digging like this, for... for problems. As if they wouldn't have plenty.

He pushed his fingers through her hair, tugging wonderfully at her scalp. He said, "Is something the matter?"

"No." Not at all. Things were so good – too good. Was she sabotaging them? Was she, on some subconscious level, unwilling or unable to just be happy – if only for a few hours?

"I have no expectations, Assumpta. We don't need to make any decisions – about anything."

"Yes we do," she said, then added, "but not tonight."

He rolled onto his side and lifted her chin. "We don't. The decision I needed to make – it's made. The others can wait."

She wanted to just ignore the tug of questions. It felt like poisoning this perfect night and yet not speaking-up was another kind of poison.

"You want to discuss it," he said.

"I don't want to fight."

"Who's fighting?"

"We should sleep."

He shrugged, "There'll be other nights for sleep."

She hid her face under his chin. "None of this is simple."

"No."

"Doesn't it bother you that I'm on the pill?" Contraception was against the rules – his rules – after all.

But he didn't hesitate to answer. "All that pales a little in comparison to breaking my vows."

"Well, alright then, does that not bother you?"

"Not nearly as much as it should. And yes, that in itself bothers me, but I believe in a God of grace, a God who was made man and felt hunger and pain and maybe not something quite like this but... but being inside you is a kind of coming home that I never imagined."

She held him tighter.

"What else?" he nuzzled in her hair.

"What are you going to do?"

"Bus-boy – we've already covered this."

"I thought you were kidding."

"That doesn't bode well – I was relying on you for a reference."

"Weren't you relying on me for employment."

"Always assuming we stay in Ballykay."

"Oh."

"Maybe we should try to sleep."

She laughed and kissed his neck because it was the closest thing to her mouth, then lay her head on his pillow, her nose touching his. "Sleep well."

He smiled, far disproportionate to her words. "Sleep well." He lingered there for a long moment and then reached for the light switch.

Fin.


End file.
